


Double Negative

by holograms



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Object Insertion, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The taming of Thomas Jefferson will be quicker than expected, Eliza decides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Negative

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this [prompt](http://hamiltonprompts.tumblr.com/post/136261058609/that-fic-on-ao3-about-jefferson-sending-eliza-a) on tumblr's hamiltonprompts: "That fic on ao3 about [Jefferson sending Eliza a sex toy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5561605) gave me weird feelings and now I can’t stop imagining them starting up this weird, kinky extramarital affair."
> 
> enjoy my sin. i feel awful being the first person to apparently use this pairing tag. i do hope lmm was kidding when he said he read fic.

It isn’t planned, but then again, most indiscretions aren’t.

Jefferson had come over to offer his condolences, but Eliza knows his true motives — it’s getting easier to not be charmed by flashy words and a counterfeit smile — and it doesn’t take long before Jefferson’s sympathies evolve into full-on gloating.

“You’re no better,” Eliza tells him, because it’s true; even though Alexander is the one who ruined their lives, Jefferson remains as a separate, despicable being.

Jefferson doesn’t deny the claim, he just smiles and saunters over to her until he’s close enough that she can smell what she guesses is French cologne.

“No need to defend him, honey,” he says, and he tucks away a strand of her hair that had fallen in her face. His hands are warm and his touch is gentle when his fingers brush against the shell of her ear. “You don’t deserve him.”

Eliza laughs at that — how is anybody else to say what she _deserves_? Shouldn’t she be the judge of that? And truly, what does one deserve? Nothing is promised.

Yet, here is one more person, telling her what she _should_ have.

It makes her angry, and gives her the urge to destroy something.

So she reaches for the nearest approximate mistake — grabbing insufferable Jefferson by the lapels of his coat and pulling him down so she can press her lips to his. He jolts against her, body going stiff, and she finally witnesses the _shy_ part of the elusive Thomas Jefferson that Angelica had wrote to her about, the one who gets embarrassed and flustered when faced with intimacy. It’s amusing, and she’s desperate to see more, to see someone else fall apart. He’s awkward, hands fumbling at her sides, not knowing whether to place them around her shoulders or at her hips or to not touch her at all, and he’s not really returning the kiss, just breathing heavily into her mouth, and he keeps squirming and bumping their noses against each other.

“Skittish, aren’t you?” Eliza mumbles, and she takes his hands and places them at her hips. He lets her guide him, and he slightly leans down to meet her, which helps, as she’s having to stand on her toes to reach him — he’s so _tall_ , much taller than she’s used to — and it’s all slightly overwhelming, an unfamiliar form against her, and she keeps inhaling that sickeningly strong sweet-floral scent of his cologne that can’t let her forget who it is (and who it’s not).

But she commands him, and soon he relaxes into her and parts his mouth, sliding his tongue against hers. Small noises emit from his throat and when he presses his front against her, she feels his hardness against her hip — _god,_ all men are the same — and she rolls her eyes and then nips at his bottom lip.

When he pulls back, he touches at his mouth and there’s a faint trace of red on his fingertips. “What the hell was that?” 

“Don’t you know by now?” Eliza asks, even though she isn’t really sure what this all means — it’s just a heat that’s intensifying in her stomach, a hunger she wants to indulge in. “Do try to keep up.”

He’s still sputtering a response when she rips his coat off of him, but he is compliant and shrugs out of it. They both pause, however, when copies of the Reynolds Pamphlet flutter out of his pockets and onto the floor.

“Oops, my bad,” Jefferson says, and Eliza knows that he isn’t sorry at all.

She pushes at his shoulders, and he stumbles backwards, falling into a chair. She hardly gives him time to settle before she hikes up her dress and climbs into his lap, facing him and straddling him with her knees pressing into the plush of the cushions.

He reclines back, and his mouth tugs up into a grin. “Well, Mrs. Hamilton—”

“Do _not_ call me that.” She is just _Eliza_.

“It’s okay if this is about getting back at him,” Jefferson says, and Eliza could kill him right then — how dare he mention _him_ , when that’s who she’s trying to forget.

“I love me a good, old-fashioned act of revenge,” he says, and Eliza swears she feels his sneer on her skin as he mouths rough, unforgiving kisses down her neck. He is inquisitive with his touches, his hands roaming her thighs that straddle his legs, and when she lets out a startled gasp when he bucks his hips against hers, he is absolutely _delighted._

“Yes, together we can bring down your husband _ahhh_ —” and the rest of his sentence dissolves into a yelp when Eliza takes a handful of his springy hair and pulls _hard._

She won’t be having any of that talk.

“I’ll be saying what this is, Thomas,” Eliza says, and her heartbeat quickens when she hears the tiny moan that escapes from him. Interested, she tightens her grip in his hair and yanks his head down so he’s looking at her. “ _Understand?_ ”

Jefferson licks his lips, and there’s a flicker in his eyes that Eliza does not miss.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and he stills. Eager. Waiting.

The taming of Thomas Jefferson will be quicker than expected, Eliza decides.

 

 

 

She isn’t intent on revenge. She knows it’s wrong. Doing this just because Alexander did the same doesn’t cancel out her transgression — two wrongs don’t make a right.

However, a distraction is nice, and needed.

After, she tells Jefferson, “This is the only time.”

Jefferson looks away from the mirror, where he had been fixing his hair and arranging his shirt to hide bites and bruises she put on him, and over to her.

“You’re the boss,” he says, and then to top it off, he _winks_.

Oh, yes. She knows then in that moment that she truly hates him.

 

 

 

It doesn’t stop her from fucking him again, though.

“Liking you has nothing to do with this,” she says as an explanation on the doorstep of his New York home, one week after the first time. “In fact, I find you dreadful.”

Her implication is enough for him to understand — he wordlessly invites her inside and takes her coat, playing the part of a gentleman, and then dismisses his servants with a wave of his hand.

“Nobody will disturb us,” Jefferson says as he leads the way to his bedroom. He doesn’t dare hold her hand, but he keeps looking over his shoulder at her, as if he thinks she’ll change her mind and run away. “Nobody will hear.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned with.” It’s true. Eliza knows that this _secret_ of theirs won’t get out. Jefferson won’t entangle himself with a scandal ( _unlike_ some _people,_ she can’t help but think) and if someone did happen to discover it, Jefferson would pay any price to keep his image intact.

Jefferson raises an eyebrow and quirks his head. “Then what are you concerned with? That you _like_ it?” 

She shoves him forward into the room without answering him.

The first thing she notices about his bedroom is that it’s startlingly empty. She assumes most of his possessions are at Monticello, and this is seen as a temporary place. It’s like he doesn’t belong here — which is fitting, as she doesn’t feel like she belongs here, either.

He sits on the bed, bouncing slightly, and crosses one of his long legs over the other. “Well? How will you have me?”

And that’s the thing — he’s surprisingly submissive, and it makes it that much easier to indulge, so her command of, “Strip,” is on the tip of her tongue. He immediately starts to undress, letting his clothes fall wherever they land in his haste to rid himself of them, and soon he’s standing in front of her, baring everything. He doesn’t try to cover himself, but he’s fidgeting, and there’s a part of Eliza that is thrilled that she has him at her complete mercy.

She places a hand on his chest and trails it downward, fingertips skimming over his skin, going down down down until she wraps her hand around his cock and gives him a couple quick strokes before letting go. He makes a guttural groan and curses when she stops touching him, and he juts his hips forward, his erection bumping against her palm. 

She glares at him, and asks, “Who said you’ll get anything more?”

He’s still figuring out a response when she pushes him onto the bed. He falls back with a flop, and she takes the opportunity to undress. After a few moments, he props himself up on his elbows to watch, his eyes wandering as she slips off her stockings, and then dress, letting it collapse onto the floor as a lilac puddle of silk, until she wears only her shift.

He continues to watch her as she kneels on the bed next to him. He lays his arm out, and apparently he thinks that it will be like before, with him over her and thrusting roughly into her with her legs wrapped tight around his waist, but Eliza has other plans. 

“Turn over. On your hands and knees,” she says, and when he doesn’t move right away she lightly swats at his thigh. He scowls at her but quickly scampers into position, a flailing bundle of limbs and hair, and then waits for her next move. She has him anticipate, her running her hand down and then palming over the curve of his ass, dipping down between his legs to lightly handle his balls before returning — and Jefferson, that smug moron, has the audacity to chuckle.

So, her plan is now even more justified — she raises her hand, and then swings down and smacks him on his ass.

Jefferson yelps, and jerks his hips forward. “ _Christ_ , woman! I was just teasing you,” he says, his words forced out on an exhale.

“You need to behave,” Eliza says, and she spanks him again, this time harder, and in a spot slightly to the left of the first strike. As much as she wants this, she’d reconsider it if he resisted, but judging from his reaction he likes it as much as she thought he would — a throaty moan escapes from him and he bows his back so he’s pushing his ass in her direction.

“Needy,” she mutters, and he cranes his head to look over his shoulder and respond, “Well, get on with it then.”

It’s a small act of retaliation and she’d love to grab him by his neck and physically force him to look away but he’s too damn tall and she can’t reach, so she settles for a hardened stare and saying, “Face forward or I’m never touching you again.” 

Jefferson nods, and there’s that _yes ma’am_ again as he looks ahead.

Eliza is glad that he can’t see her grin.

She slaps him again and again, bringing her hand down in different spots each time, and varying in intensity. Some times she’ll gently rub his ass cheek in between slaps, other times she’ll dole out two strikes in a quick succession. She can’t decide which she likes more, but either way leaves him a shivering, whimpering mess. She’s lost count of how many times it’s been, all she can focus is the sound of her palm hitting his skin echoing in the room and the wrecked noises tumbling out of Jefferson’s mouth that’s begging for it, for _her_.

The air is heavy with sex — she’s wet and slick between her legs, and there's the familiar throbbing ache pulsing in her. When she looks around at Jefferson she sees that he’s in a similar state, with his cock straining up against his stomach and a strand of precome dripping from the tip. She knows that it must be torture for him, but he hasn’t complained about it once, so she slips her hand around his middle and fists his cock and gives him a couple tugs, only giving him a few moments of relief before moving her hand back to his ass.

He lets out a dramatic, frustrated sigh — actually, Eliza would classify it more as a _cry_ — and he drops down, and starts rutting against the bed, trying to get friction in anyway he can.

Obviously, once he’s been given something, he cannot stand to be deprived of it.

“No,” Eliza simply says, and she taps him on the hips, a silent order for him to get up. He does as she wishes, but he isn’t happy about it, whining long and drawn-out as he rises back onto his hands and knees. The redness of the impact is hardly visible on his deep brown skin, but she knows it has left a trace, especially when he jumps, sensitive to her touch — she hopes that he won’t be able to sit comfortably for days.

She aims to hold off, deprive him and make him struggle for it, but he keeps making those _sounds_ , keening and almost anguished, and he isn’t able to form entire words so he settles for sobs, and his whole body is shaking, like if he isn’t touched soon he’ll die.

So she gives in, and lies against his back and wraps her hand around him and jerks him with tight, efficient pumps, and it doesn’t take much for him to come, spilling into her hand and onto the sheets. He muffles his cries by burying his face into a pillow, and she holds onto him as he rides out his orgasm, hands gripping at his sides and front pressed into his back as his muscles spasm uncontrollably.

If she hadn’t been intrigued by this before, she definitely is now.

When he finally stills and he has some semblance of breathing regularly, he falls over onto his side, her going with him. She scoots away, and with the extra space he moves onto his back and spreads out, taking up as much room in the bed as he can, and honestly, what a selfish jerk.

She sits up and peels off her shift — now damp with sweat — and flings it on the floor. Jefferson reaches out lazily and tugs on her arm to try and pull her back down beside him, but she shakes him away. He may be fulfilled but she is _not_ , and she starts to touch him again, taking his dick in her hand and stroking him base to tip. He flinches, obviously still too sensitive, but he doesn’t object, and soon his whimpers turn into a contented sigh and she has him back to full hardness.

When she sinks down on him, she hardly gives him time to acclimate before she rolls her hips against his. She places a hand on his chest to steady herself as she rides him hard, using him to desperately seek her release.

“Do you do it like this with Hamilton?” Jefferson asks. He reaches up and rubs his thumb over her nipple. “Does he like it rough?”

Her laugh comes easy. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says, and then adds, “Thinking about sex with my husband?”

She had meant it as a jibe, but to her surprise, he jerks beneath her, bucking up and saying, “What the _fuckkkk_ ,” the last of it a choked-out moan. 

This is a certain kind of depravity for both of them.

 

 

 

It continues — it’s a perfect balance of Jefferson submitting, and Eliza taking.

The few times she talks to Alexander, she’s nonchalant. Her indifference is effective until he mentions Jefferson offhand. Her cheeks flame red and she looks away from him and she’s sure that he notices her inner quandary but — he doesn’t, he just keeps talking about whatever awful thing he’s accusing Jefferson of doing (not that she doesn’t doubt Jefferson did it, he’s the worst).

During one of their meetings, Eliza mentions the incident to Jefferson, and offers a suggestion.

“What do you mean _back off of Alexander_?” Jefferson asks, exasperated, like Eliza is asking him the most difficult thing in the world.

Eliza shrugs. “I don’t want him to get suspicious.”

There’s a beat before Jefferson answers, “Wouldn’t he be more suspicious if I suddenly were nice to him?”

He has a point.

 

 

 

Jefferson hands Eliza a bottle of oil and a long, slender glass object. He stammers over his words, there’s that rare bashfulness as he begins to explain what to do with them but Eliza shakes her head to silence him.

“I know what to do,” she simply says. She runs her hand against the glass, over smooth ridges. She can feel Jefferson staring at her, wanting her to further explain _how_ she knows what to do, but she won’t give him the satisfaction.

He settles for a smug grin. “Well, my _my_ , aren’t you—”

She taps him on his mouth, just enough to make him hush. Sometimes (a lot of times) he doesn’t know just when to shut up.

His eyes are still smiling as she pushing him onto his back. She doesn’t waste time — she sits between Jefferson’s legs and slicks him with the oil, working him open until he’s pressing down and grinding onto her fingers unabashedly. When she thinks he’s ready, she pushes in the toy (as Jefferson calls it) and slowly drags it out, letting the ridges rub against him. He’s incredibly responsive, she hears how his breath catches in his throat and sees his dick twitch when she twists her wrist and presses against a place inside him that makes his entire body shake with pleasure.

He lets out a blissed-out sigh when she takes him in her hand and starts stroking him, combining it with thrusting the glass object into him. He throws his head back into the pillow and alternates fucking up into Eliza’s closed fist and down onto the object, until his movements become erratic and he’s writhing and moaning — and even though she hasn’t been touched, Eliza finds herself breathing hard and her pulse rapid.

From experience, Eliza knows that Jefferson won’t be able to handle much more, and she isn’t quite finished with him yet. She removes the object from his ass and sets it aside and she grips him around the base of his cock, hard enough to make it hurt and him squeak in surprise.

“Don’t come, Thomas,” she says. “If you do, I’m going to tie you up and leave you all night. Understand?”

He nods.

She lets him go slowly, and he keeps himself from coming, but his eyes are squeezed shut and he’s clutching the bedsheets in his fists and his chest his heaving, shuddering out short exhales. She’s impressed, honestly, as she climbs on top of him and lowers herself on him and starts to rock against him. His composure doesn’t last long though — she feels him spilling warm inside her after only a few thrusts. 

She lets him slip out of her as he softens, and he makes one of the most pathetic sounds she’s ever heard. She rolls her eyes, annoyed. As he comes back down from his high, his eyes settle on hers. There’s a mischievous glint in them and there’s only a few seconds for Eliza to wonder what that means before he grabs her by her hips and hauls her forward, towards his face.

She bites her lip to keep from shouting out when he shoves his tongue against her, licking at her folds. He laps up his release that’s mixed with her own and leaking out of her, and then circles the tip of his tongue around her clit before diving back in again and it’s so _good_ — Eliza wishes she knew why it feels so different with someone you hate. Maybe it’s because you don’t expect anything from them, you can just take and bask in the pleasure and not have to worry about what might happen, later.

When she comes against his mouth, she feels the slide of his teeth against her, a telltale sign of his grin.

 

 

 

Another time, Jefferson tells her, “I’ll be gone for a while. I’m going home.”

She expected as much. It had to end some time.

He must have expected her to say something, because he turns to his side and prods at her shoulder until she looks at him. “Come to Virginia,” he says. “I’ll make something up so Hamilton will come,” and when Eliza makes a doubtful face, he adds, “I’m the vice president, he has to do what I say.”

“And?” Eliza asks.

“Then he’ll bring you, and then you and I could _rendezvous_.”

Eliza blinks at him. “Are you fucking stupid?” she asks, her face immediately flushing — she doesn’t normally get wound up in a temper like this, but of course, it’s Jefferson who inspires it. “That is out of the question.”

Jefferson looks like a kicked puppy.

And that’s the end of the matter.

 

 

 

For a while, Eliza had been sure that Alexander would figure it out. Maybe he would smell Jefferson’s scent on her, recognize that French cologne that sticks to her skin after she’s lain with him. He doesn’t though; he’s too distracted. She almost tells Alexander about what she’s done, so he’ll stop looking at her so woebegone and have an emotion other than remorse: jealousy, amusement, anger. 

But. She doesn’t. They stay silent and their guilt reaches out and mixes together, feeding off each other and growing. 

There’s a point when she decides enough is enough — she won’t forgive him, not yet, but she wants him.

She waits until nightfall and she slams open his office door, it rattling on its hinges as it hits the wall. He startles — perhaps he had been sleeping, or lost in one of his dazes — and he looks on at Eliza wide-eyed as she saunters over to him.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says as she pushes aside his papers and spreads herself on his desk. She takes the quill in his hand and sets it aside. “Just a respite.”

Alexander doesn’t need much encouragement. He’s been itching for any contact with her. There’s only the initial hesitation of him resting his hand on her leg, and she nods, urging him on.

As Alexander fucks her against his desk, there’s a relief that flickers in her chest — she realizes that she doesn’t hate him.

 

 

 

A few weeks later, Jefferson sends Eliza a letter. As Alexander hands it to her over at the table, he raises his brow with curiosity, an unspoken, _why is he writing to you?_

Eliza shrugs. They aren’t anywhere near casual conversation, not yet.

She opens it and reads it in privacy, which she’s glad for, because her reaction to the obnoxious words Jefferson wrote would have alerted Alexander. 

 

> _Eliza,  
>  _ _I do hope that you don’t mind the informality of me using your given name, but one time you told me not to call you “Mrs. Hamilton” and I do not want our relationship to go backwards. I admit that I miss your companionship. Without you, I believe I’ve grown unruly. I need your steady hand to guide me, to remind me how to stay in line. I’m sure you understand, and really, I think you meant for me to come here alone and suffer! And yet, I wonder if you’re missing having someone to conduct, as I lack being conducted. If we do have this mutual need, should we not give way to it? Furthermore, I believe that I’ve become so unmanageable in your absence, that I’ll require your husband’s assistance as well. He can be very convincing when he wants to be (but he’ll never hear that from me, and I’ll never forgive you if you tell him I've said this), and if his methods are anything like yours I will be well-tended to indeed. I’ll let you decide, as always. If we are in agreement, I formally invite the pair of you to my humble home. You can broach the subject with Alexander—it is something that a husband should hear from his wife. And who knows, perhaps with the two of you focusing on a project together, it could help to mend things between the two of you. I am a willing subject, especially if I derive a benefit from it._
> 
> _Awaiting your response,  
>  _ _Thomas._

 

Eliza is _this_ close to tearing the letter to shreds, but then she pauses, and considers his proposition.

Two wrongs don’t make a right, but maybe three wrongs would.

**Author's Note:**

> my favorite thing is people domming the heck out of Jefferson. i love Eliza, she is perfect; she could step on me and i'd say thanks.
> 
> there's now a [sequel with 100% more threesomes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5838196)
> 
> talk to me on tumblr @[acanofpeaches](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com)!


End file.
